The Undying
by MarcCabot
Summary: A chance meeting between a Mage and a human soldier reveals the answer to one of the greatest mysteries of Azeroth... Why do most mortals go on when Death comes, while some Heroes can rise again? Why can the beloved fallen not be brought back by mystics and those beloved of the Gods as they will? The answer will surprise you, as it surprised Gods themselves. (Setting: WotLK)


**The Undying**

**Marc Cabot**

Even in the vast and sprawling camp of Valgarde, some things were easy to find. The young Human soldier looking for the smithy, for instance, had only to follow the sound of ringing hammers and look for the column of smoke from the forges. In short order he found it and approached a smith who seemed to be finishing up with some small job. As he walked up, the smith, with a look of concern, was handing something to a man who was waiting quite patiently.

"That will be fine, sir, it looks good as new. Well, better than it did when I found it, at any rate. My thanks. Are you sure I can't give you anything?" The man's voice was friendly, but the air of confidence it projected was all out of proportion to his size and his dress, as he wore only a strange longsword and no armor over his robes.

"No, Master Mage, Guard Captain Zorek has given strict orders that we aren't to charge anyone who fights for the Alliance. I'm pleased to have been of service to you." The smith looked like he wanted to bow to the other man, whose face the soldier couldn't see. Instead he only nodded deeply as the man bade him farewell and turned in the soldier's direction.

The soldier's jaw dropped as he saw the man's face. Not only were his robes covered with patterns the eye couldn't quite focus on – which the soldier's limited experience told him meant they were extremely magical – but he had the indescribable but unmistakably ageless eyes of the Undying. The soldier's body, acting quite without orders from higher up, moved out of the mage's path.

The man smiled hugely and said, "I hope I'm not so terrifying as all that! Come, come, sir, I'm all finished with the good smith, don't let me stand in the way of a soldier."

"Oh, my pardon, Master Mage, I meant no offense. I, I, I just didn't want to keep you from your business." The young soldier's mouth, like his body, was running on instinct and heading right for a wall.

"My business was getting my buckle mended, which the smith has taken care of with great skill. Now, for once, I haven't anything which _has_ to be done right this minute, so don't worry about me. Didn't you need something?"

"Um, I, yes… my breastplate." The soldier nervously pointed out a mark, half gouge and half dent, in the plate of armor over his chest. The mage considered it thoughtfully.

"Let me guess… a Vrykul axe? They don't sharpen them too much, because they know a really sharp edge is a bad idea in battle. One of them gave you a little souvenir of a trip to Utgarde, did he?"

"Why yes, Master Mage, that's right." The mage, while he didn't look like much of a fighter, had apparently faced the Vrykul before. His friendly questioning and obvious experience helped diffuse a little of the wariness the soldier had initially felt.

"Well, off with it, then, and I'm sure it will be sorted out in a trice. They do good work here, trust me. I know." The mage looked like he found this very funny for some reason. "And my name's Rahandan, if you please, not 'Master Mage.'"

The soldier walked over and the smith helped him remove the armor, which aside from the gouge was well-cared for. The smith examined it and told the soldier to come back in a few hours, commenting that a piece that large took a lot of heating and he wanted a 'prentice to help with the forge.

The mage, who'd been watching with interest, stepped up and said, "Well, then, have you anything pressing to do yourself? You have the look and the sound of Westfall about you and if you've some time, I'll buy you an ale and listen to your story. I always liked Westfall."

The soldier swallowed back some nervousness. Although the mage wasn't part of the Expedition and probably had no military rank, it was obvious to anyone that he was highly thought of by the Alliance and its military. Add that to the mysterious power that magic-users wielded – and the eyes of the Undying – and despite his friendly demeanor the mage was a little bit terrifying to a young private in the Expedition. But it wouldn't do to decline the invitation, either – not only would that be rude, but the young soldier was fascinated both by magic and the legend of the Undying, who everyone knew of and nobody knew anything about. The chance to speak with one of them was not something he could pass up.

"I'd be honored, Master Rahandan." The mage rolled his eyes at this but didn't correct the soldier again.

"People _will_ call me that, but at least you'll use my name. I'll take what I can get." The mage's smile took the sting out of his apparent exasperation. "And what's _your_ name, if you don't mind saying?"

The solder blinked at how rude he suddenly realized he'd been. "I'm William, Master Rahandan. Private William Miller. And you were right, I'm from Westfall. Just north of Sentinel Hill."

"Ah. I'm pleased to see that Westfall has recovered so much from the days of the Defias and can send troops to reinforce the Expedition. Are you part of the Brigade?" The mage referred to the Westfall Brigade, the expeditionary force of the People's Militia of Westfall. Since a band of adventurers had rooted out the Defias Brotherhood's underground stronghold and killed its leaders, the makeshift army which had opposed them had contributed mightily to the Alliance's forces in Northrend.

"No, Master Rahandan. It had already formed by the time I joined the Alliance army. Someday I hope to transfer to the Brigade and be stationed at its encampment further north. If they're still there." The soldier had heard terrible things about Northrend, and the further north you went, the worse it was supposed to get. The towering and ferocious Vrykul of the Howling Fjord were quite bad enough.

"Oh, they will be. I've been to their encampment many times, and not all the iron dwarves on Azeroth will toss them out of it. I've met many of the ones I knew in Westfall there… including some I never thought to see again. They breed them tough in Westfall, even the horses!" Again, the mage smiled at some random thought.

"Are you from Westfall, sir? You seem to know it well." William couldn't think of any famous mages from his homeland, but he was always glad to talk about it in this cold and fearsome place.

"No, I just spent a lot of time in it… and under it!" For some reason talk of Westfall kept bringing that secret smile of reminiscence to the mage's face. "But talking's thirsty work! The Valgarde Inn might have some good Westfall ale, if we're lucky. Off we go." The mage gestured for William to walk with him up to the Inn, which sat on a hill overlooking the camp.

While the Valgarde Inn wasn't exactly off-limits for low-ranking soldiers, it was still more than William could afford, and tended to attract those in the settlement with the most resources. But he couldn't decline an invitation, not one with a chance to hear stories of the Undying, so he resolved to not show his dismay at what would probably be the loss of most of his month's pay, or to let it be obvious that he was a country bumpkin not used to fine company. He was ready for disapproving looks from the barmaids, but they only had eyes for his companion when they stepped in the door.

"Master Rahandan, so good to see you. Please, sit down. What can I bring you?" The pretty barmaid smiled at the mage, then gave William a smile of his own, as if to say that any friend of the mage's was welcome at the Inn no matter how simple his dress.

"Westfall ale for Private Miller and myself, if you please." The mage reached into a pocket that hadn't seemed to be there before, and tossed the girl a coin that glinted yellow in the sunlight streaming through the windows. "I've enough to carry as it is, so please don't weigh down my poor purse with change, will you?" The girl's eyes grew wide, but she smiled hugely and practically ran to the bar to draw the ale. He smiled after her and then turned to William. "So how have you come here, Private? Tell me a story."

"Well, it's no tale out of legend, sir. After the Plague, there wasn't so much of a market for the food we grow in Westfall. So I wanted to join the army to do what I could and spare my family the burden." The soldier's eyes grew dark as he remembered the hideous aftermath of the Undead Plague. Though it had mostly spared Westfall, its destruction of the Kingdom of Lordaeron had wiped out half of humanity and thrown the rest into panic and despair until it was brought under control. The ale arrived as the soldier paused, and the mage picked up his tankard.

"Well, then, here's to you, brave William, and your willingness to defend your own." He nodded to William and took a drink with approval.

William blushed scarlet and took a sip of his own ale, nearly choking with embarrassment. "You are far too kind, Master Rahandan. I'm not brave. I just do what I have to do."

"Doing what you have to do, in these dark times, is the very meaning of bravery, William." The mage's smile didn't vanish, but it changed, becoming almost fierce, and the air around him seemed to chill slightly. "You and the brave men and women like you are all that stand between humanity and the Scourge. That is a thing to be proud of."

"But I'm just a soldier, Master Rahandan. You… you're a powerful mage. It's people like you who really give us hope. People like the Undy…" William stopped suddenly, realizing that while everyone _else_ called them Undying, he had no idea if they called _themselves_ that, or if pointing it out might be rude.

The mage sat back and took another drink, his smile unreadable. "So you noticed, did you? You're a sharp one – everybody thinks they can tell, but not everybody can." He didn't look offended at the topic, so William decided to press on.

"Can _you_ tell? Tell each other, that is?" He still didn't use the word out of some last vestige of caution.

"Yes, William. The Undying know each other, all of us do. Don't ask me how, for I haven't any idea. But whatever our kind, we know each other on sight."

This was the stuff that country boys growing up on legends dreamed of, and William wasn't about to give up now: his fear was completely consumed by curiosity. "Even… theirs? The Horde's I mean?" His voice dropped at the mention of the Horde, for that gathering of strange and alien races also had a substantial presence in the Howling Fjord, and skirmishes between the factions were not unheard of.

"Even theirs, William. Even the Forsaken Undying are our brothers in some way. We know our own."

William's jaw dropped again at the mention of the Forsaken, the undead who claimed to be free of the Scourge and the will of the Lich-King and now ruled what had once been humanity's greatest city, Lordaeron. "There are Forsaken Undying? But how can that be? Aren't they all undead the same?"

The mage actually laughed at this. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But it doesn't work that way. Most undead, Forsaken and Scourge alike, are mortal in one way – smash them to flinders, and they stay smashed. And grateful we should all be for it, at least about the Scourged ones!"

The soldier boggled. "You mean that we shouldn't be glad when the Forsaken die? Die again, that is?"

The mage's smile vanished, although he looked more sorrowful than angry. "No, William. We shouldn't. The Forsaken are just like you and I – they didn't ask to be brought into this world, they only try to make their way in it as best they can. Some of them are evil, but so are some Humans. For that matter, so are some of all races, even the Draenei. And the Forsaken Undying hate the Lich-King with a passion you and I can't even imagine. They would oppose him even if every living being swore him fealty. They will _never_ stop fighting him."

"But how does it work for an Undead to be Undying? Don't they come back to life like you…" Again William stopped, fearful of offending the mage by presuming to know anything about the mysterious Undying and their ways.

"Yes, and no. When we come back, we come back alive. When they come back, they come back undead. It's as simple and as complicated as that." The mage's expression was distant as he took another drink of his ale.

"It's hard to make people understand this, William," he continued. "A lot of people think that we're practically Titans, unstoppable, beyond the mortal pale. We're not." For some reason the mage seemed to want to try to explain himself to the soldier, to make at least one mortal understand the Undying. "We're just like you. We are you. Or we were, at least."

The soldier had a terrible thought. "Are you trying to say that I'm one of…" While being a hero out of legend had its appeal, and not a living being hadn't wondered it since the Undying came to Azeroth, the idea was not so attractive now that he was looking into the eyes of an actual Undying.

"No, William. Or at least, I haven't any idea. The only way to know is to… find out. I hope you never do. I've met some odd people who claimed they were Undying but hadn't yet fallen. I never met any of them twice. We can't tell who will come back until the first time they do. In fact, there might be many who could and don't. There's no way to know."

Again, the soldier was stunned. "What do you mean? I thought you just… couldn't be killed. No wounds could really kill you." Most people agreed that the Undying could be hurt, they just couldn't be killed.

"Oh, no. We can be killed." The mage's voice had quieted, and the chill around him grew almost painful. His breath fogged slightly and people at the other tables unconsciously shifted away, while not seeming to realize the source of the cold.

"I have bled a river of blood for this world, William. I have been burned and crushed and stabbed and fallen in ways that I won't describe even in the clear light of day. And every time I fall, I rise again, knowing that the only sure thing is that I will fall once more. Yet still I rise. I can do no other."

"But you said that there might be some who didn't. How can that be?"

"When we fall, we find ourselves in… another place. It's like this world, but there is no color, no warmth, no sound. It's like it lies on top of this world, waiting. We always find ourselves in the nearest holy place to where we fell. We can see each other, and if we try hard, we can see the living who are near us, but we can't communicate with anyone. Well, almost anyone. There is… a being. Don't ask me to describe it, because I can't. It waits for us when we fall, and it asks a single question: 'Will you return?'" The mage stopped and took another large drink from his tankard, reflecting. William waited patiently for him to speak again.

"It won't answer questions, it won't say anything else. But somehow, you get the feeling that if you don't want to return, it's… all right. That something else waits. That's what I mean when I say there could be more. Some of them might never choose to return that first time. The Light knows I sometimes wonder why I do."

He continued, "In any event, if we choose to return, we find ourselves back in our bodies where we fell, the worst of our wounds healed, the rest closing faster than any mortal could believe, ready to fight again. And fall again."

William took a deep breath. "Thank you, Master Rahandan, for sharing this tale with me. I'm so sorry you have this curse to bear."

The mage smiled again. "Curse? Is it a curse? I suppose you could look at it like that. But I don't. It's just the way things are. If I have more than one life to give, then I will give them all. I grew up in Lordaeron. For Lordaeron and the Light, I will not see this world fall to the Scourge." Most men would have pronounced this as some kind of oath, as a challenge to the universe. The mage just said it. But in his mouth the words became a statement of the way things were going to be.

"How does it happen, Master Rahandan? How does one become Undying? Is it just that you are unwilling to let go? Is that all?"

The smile grew broader and regained some of the amusement it had first held. "Now that, Master William, is a good question. And the answer is, I don't really know. But I have an idea. Part of it's my own and part of it's a story I heard from a Night Elf long ago in dreaming Darnassus, things she'd seen with her own silver eyes. Shall I tell you?"

If this question had ended with, "… and then pull out your innards and burn them before your eyes?" William could still have not done anything other than nod, his eyes huge. And the mage spoke…

"A'dal, I would speak with you," Elune, the Mother Moon, Goddess of the Night Elves, sent forth Her thought after long contemplation. While communication between such beings takes place on planes unimaginable to men, the gist of the conversation, uncommonly simple and direct for such as they, can be described in words men can comprehend.

The physical portion of A'dal, Highest of the naaru, was far away from dreaming Darnassus and the Temple of the Moon where Elune, for certain meanings of "being," usually could be said to be, but there was no detectable pause before A'dal's answering thought came to her. "Lady, I hear. How may I aid You?"

"My children, all the Children of Azeroth, are sore beset, A'dal. They fight the Scourge and die, and then rise again to join its cause. Against such an enemy they have no final hope. I have looked at the loom of the future, and not one of its threads leads to their survival as things now stand."

"Azeroth is only one world in the firmament, Lady, but Your children's bravery is second to none. We sorrow for their loss, but we can interfere no more than we do now, lest they become only puppets and pets. The Light will not allow such a fate for thinking beings, no matter the alternative."

"I know, A'dal. I give them what aid and hope I can, and no more, and I know why as well as you do. But it is not enough. Without some greater help, they must perish. This I will not allow."

"If You have some plan to succor them, Lady, we will give what aid the Light allows. But we cannot face the Lich-King, nor the Mad Ones. Even if we could dare such interference, the power necessary for us to destroy them would wipe clean the face of Azeroth should we bring it to bear."

"I do not mean to fight them, A'dal. I mean to give my children the strength to stand against them. Against the undead I will set the undying. Against the Fallen I will send those who cannot be brought low."

Ageless incarnations of the Light itself are not often at a loss for words, but A'dal considered this for a relative eternity before responding. "I am not sure I follow Your thought, Lady. We sometimes bring back great heroes when the need is dire, but our interference in that way makes mockery of death itself if overused, and sets them on the path to resent us for choosing who may stay and who must go. Nor can the gift of death be denied to mortals, not though we wished it. It is not ours to take."

"I do not mean to take it. I mean to give them a choice. Right now their only choice is to die and then be raised in a mockery of everything life means. I want them to be able to choose another path. To return to the world and fight anew, or to choose to move on through the door of death, as they will."

Again there was, for such a being, a very long pause. "The naaru must consider this, Lady. We must seek the will of the Light, for the pattern of death is not one we have ever sought to contest in such a way." Then, though its presence was still felt, the naaru grew silent, and Elune waited.

A Goddess must learn patience or find madness, for Their days are numberless and vast beyond imagining. But even to the Mother Moon it seemed a long time before the voice of the naaru sounded in Her mind again.

"Lady, the Light is with you. This world shall not fall to the Scourge for want of champions to resist. But this is not a thing to be done lightly. The balance must be altered, not swept aside. A price must be paid."

Elune loved Her children beyond any ken of Man or Elf, and Her own thought was swift in response. "Whatever the price is, it will be paid. My children must not perish. Speak, A'dal."

The naaru's crystal voice rang instantly, for it had known there could be no other answer. "First and foremost, if they are to have the power to choose life, it can be theirs alone. We can no longer pick and choose heroes to restore to the flesh. If this thing is done, no God, no Goddess, no Avatar or Aspect will have the power to restore the dead of the Children of Azeroth."

Though Elune had rarely sought to intervene in such a way, She still sorrowed for the loss of that last choice to offer the dearest of Her children such reprieve even as she answered, "Done."

"Furthermore, the Light will pick and choose its champions as seems best to it. We will not be able to influence who rises again, nor even know who might before it happens. We must surrender our judgment in all such things to the Light itself, and its choices are beyond the understanding even of such as we. The champions may one day learn to call each _other _back, but only if the Light allows."

"Done and done, A'dal." Again there was no hesitation.

"Then join Your will with ours, Lady, and we will give this world such champions as no other has ever known." With this, the limitless power of the Light the naaru embodied was opened to Elune, and had She a body, and breath to fill it with, even She would have gasped as it allowed Her to direct it to her aim. Had the body had hands, ten thousand thousand points of light would have seemed to fly from it into the darkening skies of Azeroth, bringing them a glow they had never known before streaking down to find their chosen champions.

For the first time in Her long existence the Mother Moon felt like she understood what Her children called weariness, as the link to the Light faded and became the individual presence of A'dal once more. "Is it done, A'dal? Will My children live?"

"Lady, let us see what we have wrought," said A'dal, and they extended their consciousnesses to a moonlit plain of Azeroth where a lone Night Elf huntress fought a doomed battle against wave after wave of mindless Scourge. Even as her sword slashed the last of them to ruin, she fell, her life's blood flowing over the earth beneath her broken body.

Not far away, in a small burial ground beside a long-forgotten temple, a small spark appeared.

Elune and A'dal could perceive it, dimly, and wondered at the rare sight of a thing they had never seen before. The spark floated aimlessly for a moment, then appeared to find a purpose and flew fast as an arrow over the land to the Night Elf's body. It hesitated, circling the lifeless form as if to seek some understanding, then dived into the body and disappeared.

The unfamiliar sensation of seeing something not seen before grew tenfold, and Goddess and Avatar learned they could still feel wonder as the Night Elf, her wounds closing almost too fast to see, sat up with a gasping sob of breath.

The Night Elf looked around her, uncomprehending, at the bodies of her enemies and the huge puddle of her own blood beneath her. Elune could sense that her mind was about to be overwhelmed, and let Her presence become strong enough for the Night Elf to sense. Beside Her, A'dal did the same. The Night Elf looked at the vision of flickering light and could not make herself speak.

"Be tranquil, my child. I am Elune and this is A'dal of the naaru. No harm will come to you in our presence. Rejoice at the dawn of hope for your people, for we bring you tidings of great joy."

"Elune… Mother… why are You here?" The Night Elf found her tongue at last, though she had almost no wit to use it. "Did You bring me back? I fought… I died… I felt myself die!" Once again she almost gave in to her terror, but Elune strengthened her with a thought, and she calmed.

"No, child. I did not bring you back. The Light itself brought you back, for you are one of its chosen champions. Soon you will be joined by your brothers and sisters all over this world. For so long as you will, you can protect your people from all evils, and death itself cannot stop you. Nor can you be used by the Scourge, not ever, nor corrupted by the evils outside this world against its children."

Adal spoke at last. "But know this, brave one. When you can fight no more, you may choose to pass through the door of death and find what waits on the other side. Only your love will bind you to this world. When at last you must rest, your reward awaits. The Light does not abandon its champions."

The Night Elf's dazed expression turned to wonder and awe as the presence of Elune and A'dal faded from her view. She rose up, heedless of her remaining wounds, and walked with purpose toward the nearest settlement, a messenger from beyond all hope to a dying world.

The news that at last the Children of Azeroth could stand against the Scourge and the Fallen flew across the world, and as the ranks of the Undying swelled the ranks of the Scourge faltered at last. Far away on the Frozen Throne the Lich-King felt the shift as for the first time the remains of heroes refused his call and answered another in his despite. In measureless depths the Mad Ones found a new frustration as beings of mere flesh and blood rejected their insanity and brought their avatars ruin. The Fallen themselves knew a new fear of mortals they could kill but could not taint, who answered their destruction with vengeance which could be slowed but never stopped. As they returned again and again, the Undying learned new power and rose up, higher each time they fell, until their strength was beyond any the Children of Azeroth had ever dreamed of knowing, and that strength could know no final defeat, nor ever be overwhelmed in their defense.


End file.
